


The Flavours of Worship

by therune



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therune/pseuds/therune
Summary: dh-kinkmeme fill - https://dishonored-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/446.html?thread=435134#cmt435134Nothing much, just anything with a very drunk Outsider, and the antics he may get up toBonus: if he has a hangover in the morning(preferably no romantic pairings)(written before DH2 and DOTO)





	The Flavours of Worship

The Outsider is thousands of years old. The Void is his domain where he is eternal and magnificent. He has seen all already, for he is so old. Few things interest him. And even fewer genuinely surprise him. 

Many have bargained for his favor: build shrines, written his name on the wall, left charms made of bone. Once upon a time, tribes went to war for him, shed their blood for him. Others gave him trinkets, pearls and the teeth of wild animals. Some burned possessions and rarely people to gain his benevolence.   
They wanted a powerful vengeful god, so he appeared as a tall man, with bulging muscles and tattoos all over his body, a spear in his hand.   
He has appeared as a creature of the sea, not quite man or beast.   
They only see what they worship, as he reflects their desires back onto themselves. 

The people of the Isles nowadays decorate his shrines with purple cloth and golden thread, with cold light and bones. The shrines are few and far between, hidden in corners, secret. So he appears as such: a fleeting god, hidden behind the mask of a young man, who could pass as one of them, if he so wished. His eyes are as black as the shadows they hide him in, his skin as pale as the bone they leave for him. His voice as rich as the purple they decorate his shrines with. 

After the plague of Gristol has gone, that attitude changes. People celebrate. Not few, disappointed by the abbey and their overseers, worship at his shrines now.   
And they make a new sacrifice: wine.   
Instead of blood, wine spills over his altars, in great golden goblets.

And so he reflects that, too. 

 

After the desaster with not one but two overseers, the abbey needs restructuring. They do away with the masks, claiming that hiding behind masks was what kept the actions of Campbell and Martin hidden. They refuse to wear the golden faces. Two of the younger overseers walk across Holger Square, enter the abbey and are just about to head for the training barracks, when they hear a loud crash. It sounds like something metallic scraping over the floor, something heavy, as if someone were to drag around an oven. They just turn the corner, when they see a young man throwing musical boxes to the floor in what appears to be a drunken frenzy.  
"Desist, citizen," they shout and move to arrest the man. He turns towards them, and their eyes are black pools.  
"Fuck you and your fucking noise, you fuckheads!" the man shrieks and melts away into shadows.   
They are stunned for a precious few seconds before they raise the alarm.   
Every musical box in the entire abbey ground has been mangled beyond repair. 

 

It's another party, another costumed ball. The nobles lit and flirt, drink and dance as if nothing had changed. The food is plentiful, the gowns sublime and the smiles - though hidden - bored as usual. Gossip is ripe.   
"I was at Lady Boyle's last party," a woman with a butterfly mask says. "And he was there, too. We thought it was just a little bid of morbid fun, to dress up as the masked felon. I remember how Harry even scoffed and said to me that the mask was obviously wrong. But it was him all along, the real Lord Protector! And he was innocent through all of this. If only I had known back then."  
There is more talking, more drinking, but no more eating. Some drunken guest has apparently drenched every available food in bright green jello. Even the fried fish is dripping with gelatinous chunks. 

 

"Citizens of Dunwall, there are reports of a naked mean streaking through John Clovering Boulevard. The Citywatch has been informed about this miscreant and will bring him to justice. We advise all citizens to avoid this particular area for the next 10 minutes."

 

"Ah, that's the stuff!" Sokolov sighs and takes another hearty swig from the bottle. With a dull 'thunk' he rests his head against the wall.   
"Can you believe it? She declared it illal... ille....illeg...illegal. Yes, illegal. Kingstreet Brandy, can you believe it?"  
"Why has no one ever told me how delicious alcohol is? Brandy is de.....de....what is the word I'm looking for?"  
"Delightful. No, delicious. Desirable? Divine!"  
"Yes, divine! What a nice word."  
"It means god-like."  
"You don't say..."

 

"Citizens of Dunwall, the naked man on John Clovering Boulevard has reported to have stolen a horse cart. We urgently advise all residents to stay indoors, lock all the doors and windows. All citizens, please make a wide berth around this area. Thank you and keep safe."

 

There is a fragrance on the wind that Daud hasn't smelled for years. He takes one breath and knows that he is home. It hits him like a sledgehammer that finally all the colors are right again. The water is of a lighter blue, the wheat golden and the houses painted in cheerful red and yellows. Daud takes off his coat, rolles up his sleeves before removing his boots and rolling up his pant legs as well. The Whalers who came with him - he's a bit surprised and infinitely grateful that it's almost all of them - watch him in stunned silence as he begins to shrug off layers and layers. Until the Knife of Dunwall becomes a man again.   
With a splash, he jumps into the water before the boat has landed, curls his toes into the sand and walks up the beach.   
Blissfully, he closes his eyes and a smile dashes onto his face as he hears about 20 more splashes behind him.   
They load their possessions from the boat and pay the captain.   
Daud sends them to explore the village, and they take off immediately.   
"Oh Daud," he hears a voice behind him purr into his ear.  
Slowly, he turns around "And here I thought you'd find retiring on a sunny island predictable and boring, I-"  
The words die in his throat as he is facing the Outsider properly. He looks like he always does, but his hands clutch a giant flower chain.   
Daud's eyes flicker to the object immediately, expecting it to be a twisted chain, made of entrails, or butterflies with skulls, rusted cogs, but it seems made of regular flowers. They're poisonous, his mind supplies.   
"I just wanted to welcome you to your new home," the Outsider says. He seems...  
"Are you drunk?" Daud asks. If the Outsider were the type of god to strike down blasphemers with lightining, Daud would be dead 200 times over.  
"Yes!" the Outsider says and his arms, normally folded over his chest or gesturing slightly, throw wide open.  
"They sacrifice wine at my shrines. They never gave me wine before - they gave me death, blood, sex, but wine is new. So I'm experiencing this."  
Daud wants to back away slowly, he hasn't survived for decades as an assassin without developing a few survival instincts, but he finds that he can't move.  
The blossoms whisper aganst his skin, as the Outsider loops the chain around his neck twice.   
The sky grows dark, shadows spill out from the Outsider's feet, everything seems normal. Normal for him.  
Until the Outsider smiles and pokes him in the chest with a bony finger.  
"Did I ever tell you that you're smoking hot?"

 

"Citizens of Dunwall, John Clovering Boulevard has been closed to the public. No further information can be disclosed at this moment."

 

Corvo has a bad feeling. He has been checking Emily's room and patrolling so frequently, that the young empress had dismissed him quite impolitely.   
So he's standing on the roof abover her room and keeping watch. Something feels off.   
"My dear Corvo," someone says. There is only one who would dare, who can.  
Corvo wants to say something, first if Emily's in danger, then something about what game the Outsider is playing. While his brain is taking a second to find proper phrases, the Outsider comes into view, carried by a mess of waving smoky tendrils of shadow.  
And everything Corvo wants to say gets stuck in his throat. Instead he asks:  
"Why are you naked?"


End file.
